


The Situation Is This

by Oyakata_Manya



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst and Porn, M/M, Naruto doesn’t appear, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Promiscuity, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love, Unrequited Lust, Weirdness, and also, and parenthesis, but it’s a narusasu flavored fic, gratuitous overuse of hyphens, he’s only mentioned, humor AND porn, this fic goes zero to sixty, unhealthy thought processes, weird narration, you aren’t ready
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:55:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22286710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oyakata_Manya/pseuds/Oyakata_Manya
Summary: The two of them—They have something of an—arrangement.
Relationships: Orochimaru/Uchiha Sasuke, Uchiha Sasuke/Uzumaki Naruto, Uchiha Sasuke/Yakushi Kabuto
Comments: 6
Kudos: 69





	The Situation Is This

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot believe it. My first Naruto fic, and it’s this.
> 
> Baby steps, I guess.

See, now, they aren’t close—Sasuke and Kabuto, that is.

Truth is, they don’t actually care for each other much at all. Or at least, Sasuke doesn’t. There’s something off about the silver-haired man, something a little too jagged, something a little to sharp—but uncanny. Like the looming dark hull of a ship, waiting to trap swimmers at the bottom of the ocean. 

Sasuke has always been a more than cautious individual, and something in Kabuto’s countenance tells him that danger lurks there. 

He knows the other man isn’t fond of him either; Kabuto doesn’t even bother to hide the brittle spite that lingers in his low tone when speaking to him. Like he doesn’t quite trust him either—but that’s expected. Sasuke, well—he wouldn’t trust himself either. Not at all. 

Their relationship under Orochimaru is—terse, businesslike. Neither of them trust the other as far as they can throw him, and that works. Keeps things professional. 

But—and this is imperative to understanding the dynamic they keep—they have something of an—well. 

The two of them—

They have an _arrangement_. 

Now, it was Sasuke who started this. And he knows how that sounds. Be sure not to misunderstand; they dislike each other. He is not—even remotely—attracted to the other man. 

Kabuto is—too flighty, too wispy, too slippery, and he rubs against Sasuke (haha—get it?) like oil on water. His features are dull, plain, conventional; his form too typical, too slim. 

(But if he were taller, tanner. Were his hair short, spiked and golden like the sizzling sun. Had he a brash and boisterous persona—)

Well. 

We’re getting there. 

Sasuke is—he’s a young man. He has needs, wants. Even if he doesn’t really understand them all that well. (Though he never truly got a chance to.) He has desires, definitive tastes that involve being held down, firm fingers splayed against him, rough and hard like he’s hated because he _is_ , the feeling of a long, thick—

_Wait_. We’ll get there soon, it’s just. 

They have this— _agreement_. 

It really isn’t how it sounds. It’s nothing like that— _at all_. It’s just that he arrived at Sound during a very pivotal time during his life ( _“during this time, your body will be going through a multitude of changes… you may find yourself_ wanting _…”_ ) and he has—he had preferences, and also, he had two options. 

Let’s just get this out of the way—

Sasuke has let Orochimaru fuck him before.

It wasn’t—bad. Not necessarily. It never was _bad._ But it wasn’t what he imagined. See, every second he is with the sannin, he is _treasure_. He is fragile, frail. The snake eyes him up like a doll, like a delicacy, and devours him with just as much careful and cautious delicate precision. 

The way he prepared him— _slowly_ , _sweetly,_ _“Don’t you feel that, Sasuke-kun? This is how it feels to be_ entered _”_ —with such sluggish and methodical long fingers, the way his hands, his eyes would creep over Sasuke’s smooth and unblemished body— _like an incredible occurrence, a one-in-one-million singularity. The man was no Hyuuga but he could’ve had the byakugan for all the depth his penetrative gaze held, as he stared at Sasuke, stared between his long pale legs and_ into _him_ —and when he finally got around to fucking him, it was—well—

_“This, too, is something that can be learned from, Sasuke-kun.”_

_That’s what he’d said as he rolled his hips and Sasuke sweated, and it was too slow, far too slow, the snake-like slithering sensuality, and in the heaving breath between each weighty thrust there was just enough time—enough time for Sasuke’s mind to_ wander _—to sunny smiles and honey-glazed orange and beaming blue eyes like—_

Sasuke doesn’t let Orochimaru fuck him anymore. 

Not for the man’s lack of trying; the Uchiha has only grown more beautiful, more breathtakingly otherworldly—as Uchiha are wont to do—with every slow-crawling day that passes under his domain. 

But even still. Sasuke wants, Sasuke _needs_. 

You know how it is. 

So he—

Well, for a while, he figured he could manage by himself. That’s right, _manage_. 

It’s truly impressive, the innovative and inventive uses a lonely boy can come up with for the hilt of his sword. 

But that’s neither here nor there. 

We’re avoiding the elephant in the room here; what Sasuke gets up to in his quarters with his ( _long, hard_ ) weapon isn’t anyone’s business but his own. 

What matters here is—Kabuto. 

Right. 

Well, they’re—what is probably predictable at this point, given the context is—

The situation is this: Sasuke and Kabuto _fuck_. 

But only occasionally. 

It isn’t like—they certainly aren’t attracted to each other, or anything. Sasuke certainly isn’t attracted to _Kabuto_ of all people. 

His tastes lie more in strong and bold, determined personalities and unrelenting strength, broad shoulders and chiseled, muscled abdominals with seal markings not so far from a happy trail of blonde—

Well. 

You get the gist of it. 

Sasuke and Kabuto have an _arrangement_. 

They fuck (but only occasionally!)

But maybe we’re beating around the bush here. That’s certainly not something Sasuke tends to do; he enjoys getting to the point of things, bluntness (a _blunt pink cockhead pushing hard and dry against his—_ )

Ahem. 

Anyways. 

(— _his hole, and he feels it deeply, down in the pit of him, fuck, he’s so full he feels it in his_ throat _and Kabuto isn’t even that_ big _, just imagine what it’d be like if it was Na—)_

A— _hem_.

They fuck. 

Maybe a little bit more often than— _occasionally_. 

But it’s more than just fucking, for the two of them. Because the reality deep down is that they more than dislike each other, they hate the other’s guts just as much as they’d like to intimately get to know his. And also because of the terms of the—the arrangement. 

Because it’s a proper arrangement, after all. If an unspoken one. 

What happens is—

How it plays out is—

(Perhaps it’s best to take a pause. There’s been enough pause as it is, and Sasuke doesn’t enjoy being kept waiting. 

This is the undeniable truth of how things are done.)

Sasuke finishes his nightly training. 

He trains often, these days—obviously. It’s important, this and nothing else, that he must get stronger. If he can’t, then his time spent here in the snake sannin’s care will be for naught. 

If he can’t, then he won’t be able to take down Itachi. 

If he can’t—

Sasuke sheathes his sword. 

(No, not like _that_.)

But he’s—

Tired, exhausted. He’s panting from exertion and his vision is a bit blurred; his shirt is shucked down to his sides because the thick dripping sweat that oozed from his overworked body had soaked rancid and dark into the pits of his sleeves. Even now, in the state that he is, he feels a little—you know. 

Suffice to say he’s hard as a rock in his pants, he can feel the tip of his prick rubbing hypersensitive you against the smooth, soft fabric and it’s _heaven_ and it’s _hell_ , all at the same time, and the worst part? Is that this is _normal_. 

Situations like this—that’s what the _arrangement_ is for. 

Sasuke straightens, stretches. Cracks his back as he arched it. He resists the overwhelming temptation to rub himself off right here and now—because he knows it’ll be better (knows it makes him _tighter_ ) when he—sits on it. Lets it stew. 

Just for a while at least. 

Finding Kabuto within Orochimaru’s hideout proves to be a trickier and trickier task each time. Sasuke’s opinion? He’s being avoided. Not that that’s surprising, really. But Kabuto’s a red-blooded male too, and Sasuke knows how he likes it. 

(He _hates_ that he knows that.)

It’s the same every goddamn time. 

He finds Kabuto randomly, and only after seeking out his chakra signature; he’s sat at a desk in one of the sparsely decorated rooms about the place, reading scrolls on medical ninjutsu. That stuck-up fuck—as though he could be learning anything he doesn’t know already. 

Sasuke, to announce his entrance ( _hah_ ), grunts succinctly; “Hnn.” 

The white-haired nin tuts from his seat at the table, but says nothing. Just silently reads on—fuck, the prick. He wants Sasuke to make the first move. 

That sadsack fuck—if Kabuto wants to dance? Sasuke can dance. 

The Uchiha unsheathes his blade, readies his stance. Focuses, cools down ( _h_ _ot, he’s so fucking hot, he wants to cum,_ needs _it_ ) and breathes. 

Steady, and—

A spark of white hot lightning cracks against the wooden table Kabuto’s sat before, and it splits the thing in two. Orochimaru’s right hand stands, jumps, leans against a wall. Stares at Sasuke from behind the glaring light shines against his spectacles. 

Next move. 

Sasuke charges at his opponent, chidori’s steady stream thrumming in his palm, but he’s parried. Kabuto spins him, slams his hand against the wall so it’s stuck, pins him there. 

Leans in, that sly fucking smile toying at his thin lips. Presses his mouth against Sasuke’s ear and breathes, hot and wet, “Need something, Sasuke-kun?”

_Fuck_ —

Sasuke can’t help it, he—rubs his legs together. It’s all he can do not to whine. Feels hit on his cheeks, warmth pooling in his gut. 

He says nothing. 

He never says anything—that’s part of the _arrangement_. 

His partner gets the hint well enough. 

It’s enough to get him drunk, get him keening, when Kabuto all but crams him up against the wall and undoes his obi in a single deft hand. The purple article falls to the floor and his shirt follows quickly after, leaving his pink flushed skin bared and open in the air. 

For a second, that sly fucking smirk dissappears from Kabuto’s face—there’s a snarl there, real _hate_ there. 

Then he presses his face against the juncture between Sasuke’s neck and his shoulder (the right one, and there’s a point to be made there, because Orochimaru already owns the other half of him) and _presses._

Sasuke—

He _whimpers_. 

Fuck, it’s so demeaning. It’s the worst; the way Kabuto keeps his spectacles on and Sasuke can feel their sharp edge presses just as hard against his soft skin as Kabuto’s teeth. And his hand, too—Kabuto’s hands aren’t big because he isn’t broad, but his fingers are _long_ and _quick_ and it takes little to no time for them to find Sasuke’s backdoor and _dig in deep_. 

Sasuke latches on—he grips the other man’s shoulders. Clenches his eyes tight just as brutally. 

(Begins his eyelids the man working him open is bigger, taller, blonder, better, more important, and he’s asking Sasuke if it feels good, Teme, because he wants to make it good for—)

Sasuke, he—

Gasps. Digs his fingers into Kabuto’s shoulders hard enough that were he too bare, he would draw blood. It’s a plea—a silent begging to _hurry the fuck up_. 

Kabuto pulls his face from Sasuke’s neck. Smirks at him again, like he’s clever or something. His glasses are fogged from the heat of chidori earlier and the sweat-slick steam of Sasuke’s warm skin, and Sasuke hates it, knows they’ll only get worse from here.

He says, “Impatient, Sasuke-kun?” 

No, not that. 

Just—

_Desperate._

He moans, deep and throaty, when Kabuto suddenly and ceremoniously reams a second finger into him. They’re so fucking thin, he fingers, and Sasuke feels them move inside him, long and spider-like, and it’s too much it’s too _much_ —

And again, there’s a moment where—

Kabuto stops hiding—

And Sasuke _feels_ it, the moment he gets rough with him, because the jagged length of his uncut nail scrapes unforgivingly against his prostate and it _hurts_. And it should hurt—that was always the point, that it would hurt, because—he—

Fuck, to hell with it. 

Sasuke uncoils one arm from around Kabuto’s back only to cram his glistening sweat-slicked fingers up inside himself along with Kabuto’s. He fucks himself like that, good and gross and hard, and it’s perfect, it’s fucking fantastic—

Up until the moment Kabuto starts fucking him _countermeasure_ to his own ministrations and Sasuke outright gags, it’s too damn much. 

Kabuto presses his face against Sasuke’s neck again, grunts, panting, and Sasuke knows the translation of that: it’s _I hate you_ , it’s _You’re a sadsack fuck and I’m only doing this because I’m desperate for it_ , because—

_They don’t fucking like each other!_

“Sasuke,” The white-haired nin says, and there’s no -kun this time, no smirk and swiveling wavering wispiness. Only the raw, thick heady tension of _I want to fuck you_. “Just what is it you want?”

Fuck, he—

(Everything. He wants to become strong. Wants to slay his brother like the demon he is. Wants to avenge the wasted lives of his mother, his father, his aunts, uncles and cousins. Wants Naru—)

—can’t even begin to _describe_ —

But all he does is whimper, bitch his legs up higher on Kabuto’s hips and that’s another voiceless cue, another desperate instruction because he _wants_.

Kabuto chuckles. The thing is dry, thick, crackling. He knows—

He always knows. 

(This is it—this is what makes Kabuto better, makes him more stimulating than a sword. Because Kabuto is ugly and infuriating, but he _listens_.)

The elder drops to his knees, grabs Sasuke’s legs and hoists them up against his shoulders so the Uchiha’s bent in half against the cold stone wall. This isn’t what Sasuke wants, not really—the solution to all his problems is a little longer, a little thicker ( _a little taller, a little tanner—_ ) and it possesses the uncanny ability to flood him with warm wet whiteness—but Kabuto wears a fucking one-piece suit and there’s no way he’s going to comply that far as to completely strip for Sasuke’s sake. 

No way in hell. 

This, then, will have to do. 

Kabuto’s tongue is much like his fingers; long, thin, deft. It’s not even close to what Orochimaru’s got going on—but that’s not what Sasuke wants right now. 

What he wants to the hard and painful press of Kabuto’s fucking spectacles digging into the plump pliant fat of his ass and the brutal way he tongues him. The white-haired man doesn’t fuck around with nuance, or foreplay—he isn’t about to eat Sasuke out like he’s some four course meal. But he can fuck him, rough and deep even with his tongue, and that’s what Sasuke _wants_ , what he _needs_. 

Sasuke reaches a single hand down, fists it in that silvery-white head of hair. Fuck, that’s—

It’s good. 

It’s _so_ good. 

His whole body shaking with the forces of Kabuto’s shoulders moving on each thrust—the silky wetness lathering across the most sensitive part of him, the most private part of him—it’s more than he can

—bear—

“N-na—!” He stutters before he catches himself, and he presses his other hand against his teeth to silence himself—he can’t afford to break the terms of the _arrangement_ , not now, not like this. The hand in Kabuto’s hair tightens, grips it with force, because he _hates_ him—

When he finally comes, it’s as though he’s reached the top of a mountain—he’s flinging himself off, into the unknown on the other side, and he feels such hot lightning crackle up his back he could swear he’d accidentally activated chidori. He closes his eyes and—

(Just for a moment—

He is with Naruto, his childhood friend. He’s blonde and young and dashing. He’s everything Yakushi fucking Kabuto _isn’t_. 

Why—why was Sasuke doing this,

again?)

Sasuke’s lilywhite thighs crush around Kabuto’s skull and he squirts his load in a white arc, and it splatters, sad and pathetic, against the dark stone floor. 

He feels something warm and wet hit the hand he’s got pressed against his face—but wait—why is he—

( _wasn’t this supposed to be a funny story?_ )

We’ve come some ways, ladies and gentlemen. 

Speaking of come—

Sasuke’s body goes limp; he relaxes in the aftermath of his climax, and Kabuto shifts, slides his slick wet tongue out of Sasuke’s shining pink hole, and sits back on his haunches. 

His spectacles are filthy—his expression is unreadable behind them. But he isn’t smirking anymore. 

He stands, gives Sasuke ( _so sad, so pathetic. What happened to this just being about satiating needs? Where did all of that go?_ ) one last glance before turning and leaving the room. 

That fucker—Sasuke _knows_ he creamed his pants during that ordeal. He’s so sure of it. 

Sasuke pants. He—

Heaves his pants back up, grabs his shirt and his obi—

(This is the undeniable truth—)

Fixes his marked, disheveled appearance to the best of his ability. Fuck, it was rough. 

Fuck, it was so good though. 

(—of how things are done.)

It’s just another—

Part of the _arrangement_.

That’s all it is. 

Really, don’t—don’t look at him like that!

Yes, maybe it’s—a little sad, a little pathetic—more than a than a little demeaning, but—

That’s just how things are!

Really,

It’s completely—

_Normal_. 

They just. They two of them—

They do this every once and a while. Because, see—

They’ve got this—

— _arrangement._

_._

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Listen if anyone here actually knows of any fic in which Sasuke fucks himself with his sword I’d very much appreciate it if you’d link to said fic in the comments.


End file.
